She stands before me, empty handed;
a shell of existence, breathing life.
Feeling pulses through her viens
and excitement drives ambition,
where dread cannot hold her back.
Words are thrown from wings of sorrow,
where the arrows fall as rain,
from people lost to people found.
Poems escape from dirty fingertips,
to bring expressions of their author.
A house is built upon a street,
though fields and rocks lay bare;
the homes of countless animals,
above the homes of countless more.
And we are graced with impermanence.
Yet so often it seems to me,
that is to say I think,
that in a way it doesn’t really count.
Not really.
We are toes buried beneath ground glass and
Seaweed on ocean banks, poised to dive,
Ready.
We are the dot that appears
Behind closed eyelids;
I chase it around the red of my inner eye but
It escapes me, always on the periphery.
We cannot look directly at ourselves
You see.
We are dust rising from ivory keys, the
Deep breath and thunderous silence of
Notes unplayed.
I can already hear the music.
We are the toe-curling, mouth agape
Ecstasy of expectation.
Skin so ready to be touched it
Tingles in anticipation.
I can already feel you.
We are a longing that throbs, that
Lives beneath the beds of my nails
And claws its way through sweaty dreams.
We are the prescience I breathe.
We are the future I miss.
- POETINSIDE
poetinside
If every moment were made this way;
Even the tiniest streaks of sweet colors
Pressed along our skin,
Would beckon sensations so vivid,
A kiss anywhere
Upon your unlimited body
Would equal paradise.
Nobody else would see this;
A consequence of our intimate actions…
Every moment can be made this way-
Even brighter than the sun.
I believe, together,
We can make it.
- DENNIS RENAISSANCE
dennisrenaissance
It was an omen they said,
Three days on the spire, that big black bird,
Someone will fetch up dead.
And as soon as it took flight,
From sirens and engines and piercing searchlights,
Fire rained from the sky and bombs tore through the night.
They feared for the boy till morning came,
Neighbours all hoarse from calling his name,
But as they felt hope fade he came running up the street with soot on his face.
Now he stands on the rubble that was once his home,
Hands on his hips, legs akimbo,
“I am the King of the Castle!” He crows.
- ENTERTHENOCTUARY
enterthenoctuary
I dropped safely into the father’s armchair. He was away plastering an attic for the Germans down Poverty Row. I was watching the cat to start a row because Timmy the dog had started ceilidhing with her kitten in its cardboard box, but she just turned the once to watch them play, meowed, then faced away and settled her snout snug down between her orange shins.
- DERMOT HEALY
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
- WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
With storm comes the heartbeat of man,
In shattered love their mourning’s lost-
The wistful rain beats against harrowed bones,
And blue pearls shimmer in the fog.
A memory lost where a life begun,
Where friends laid now is thick with thorn,
Viridian coils around a sodden shore.
The island is no longer seen,
Nor its name spoken, nor its tales told-
Shadows blossomed where cracks ached,
Clutching the rafters when they can,
Where dust and stones are torn apart by wind.
What one could give,
But for a shattered chalice of innocence-
A piteous grasp toward the final pulse.
“I’m capernoited!” He exclaimed,
I asked him to explain.
He damned Damn Lethologica,
Said he couldn’t think the name.
“There must be zenzozenzizendic words”
He justified at me,
“For how I do feel for the nonce.
Umm, do you follow me?”
If he were on a whaling ship,
That’s stuck in ice, he’d sing,
And if the ship were Greenlandic,
He’ be mallemaroking.
When I protested he was mad,
“besotted” he’d become,
“And though its not inviolate
It beats vigesimation.”
I think he saw my clueless looks,
He asked: “would crocked do?”.
Oh how I wish he would use words
Beknown to me and you.
I still daren’t ask however,
Else he’d think ill of me,
And I know if he were to do so,
I’d lack drunk adoxography.
(Source: circadianpoetry)
The faking boy to the trap is gone,
At the nubbing shit you’ll find him;
The hempen cord they have girded on,
And his elbows pinned behind him.
‘Smash my glim!’ cries the reg’lar card,
‘Though the girl you love betrays you,
Don’t split, but die both game and hard,
And grateful pals shall praise you!’
The bold it fell—a jerk, a strain!
The sheriffs fled asunder;
The faking boy ne’er spoke again,
For they pulled his legs from under.
And there he dangles on the tree,
That soul of love and bravery.
Oh that such men should victims be
Of law, and law’s vile knavery!
- ANON
